Vokun Dovahkiin
by inmypantaloons
Summary: The drunken and sarcastic misadventures of the girl who would be Dragonborn, but never wanted to be. "Leave the heroics to the heroes, and let me get drunk in peace." Deals with a lot of the emotional issues of somebody who deeply regrets having emotions in the first place. Mostly drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

**I wasn't going to post this, but my ps3 is busted so now I have to live vicariously through fanfiction. For the most part, this doesn't really follow game canon. But I guess that's only applicable if I decide to post more chapters, and if I do they will mostly be drabbles. **

**P.S. There are OCs (or at least one at the moment), but most of them are actually various Dragonborns I've played. I like my player characters and I don't want any of them to feel left out, ok. Only Sancia is the actual Dragonborn, though.**

x

Sancia found herself in Whiterun. It wasn't the choicest of destinations in her book, but few places were, come to think. It wasn't forbidding like Markarth, or snobbish like Solitude. No, Whiterun was just so…_wholesome_. It wasn't the sort of city that should play host to the murdering, thieving likes of her. All the same, she had needed a drink, and the Bannered Mare was the next nearest inn and tavern available. Beggars cannot be choosers, as the old adage goes.

Nord Mead was swill, but it was cheap swill. Honningbrew Mead was better, but slightly out of her price range, though preferable to the suspiciously overpriced and bland-tasting Black-Briar Mead. Nord Mead was the sort of stuff brewed in the same vats as homemade skeever-poison, then heavily diluted with some form of alcohol so as to weaken the lethality. The very thought, combined with the of feeling the stuff washing over her tongue made her cringe inwardly. Oh, if only she had the coin for some Colovian brandy. Or Firebrand wine. Now _that_ would knock her on her ass. Sadly, her coin-purse was light enough without her wasting its contents on unnecessarily expensive beverages.

No, Nord Slop would get her just as drunk, and soon enough she wouldn't even be able to taste it well enough to care how disgusting it was. When she was vomiting it up tomorrow morning she would regret this decision all over again, but she preferred to live in the present, and let the Divines sort out the future.

"Thought I'd find you here," claimed a raspy voice, its owner so close that Sancia could feel their breath on her ear.

"No khajiit allowed in the city," she muttered, annoyed at how quickly she'd been found. She didn't bother asking how her companion had made her way past the city guards—in all likelihood the answer was that she'd simply scaled the walls. In fact, she sincerely doubted that there were any walls built by man or mer that could keep Tsa'eska out of a place she'd set her mind on getting into.

"If they truly meant to enforce such a law, then they would build their walls higher," Eska purred, confirming Sancia's internal ruminations. Ignoring the distrustful look on the innkeeper's face, she pulled out a seat next to her human friend and settled herself down at the bar.

"How'd you find me?" the Breton asked, knowing that this too was a pointless question, but trying to avoid any meaningful conversation.

"I simply employed your usual sense of logic, and then followed the scent of shame, and cheap booze."

"The tried and true method," Sancia snorted wryly. In truth, Eska could have found her no matter where she ended up, but being predictable required less effort, so here they both were. "One of us has to be reliable, I suppose."

"You're nothing if not reliable, sister," the khajiit mused with a feline grin, "For example, I can rely on you to order mead enough for the entire Imperial Legion," Sancia interjected here with a scoff, "and I can rely on you to have imbibed most of it by the time I arrive. I can also rely on you to leave me as much as you know I will drink, since the innkeepers will not serve a khajiit." That last was true enough. Sancia reached into her cloak to retrieve a bottle the bartender had not seen her hide—though it was certainly paid for—and handed it to Tsa'eska, her sister in all things but blood.

The two fell silent for a few minutes while the khajiit sipped her mead, and Sancia drained another bottle. The Breton was beginning to feel that telltale dizziness, her first clue that she'd already had too much to drink. Unfortunately the innkeeper suddenly seemed unwilling to serve either her or her companion, no matter that they were paying customers. _Racist old hag_, Sancia thought, though she might have said it out loud if the scandalized look the old woman gave her was any indication. When she felt Eska's furred hand on her shoulder, she knew that that was their cue to leave.

Tsa'eska pulled up her hood as they exited the inn, hiding her all too obvious feline features; deep grey fur that almost appeared blue, interspersed with white tips and points, and golden eyes that flashed in the moonlight. Her tail was harder to conceal, even with the cloak she wore, but as long as they kept their heads down the guards likely wouldn't notice—this was Whiterun, after all, not Windhelm.

Once in the relatively empty market square, they could hear the echo of muffled shouting and music coming from the great, upturned ship located in the Cloud District. Jorrvaskr, Sancia knew. She'd only been to Whiterun once before, and she hadn't stayed long enough to run into any of its residents. This time she hadn't been quite as fortunate.

"There might be work to be found in this city," Eska pointed out in that roundabout way of hers. Of course she was talking about going up to Jorrvaskr and asking to join the Companions.

"Yes…," Sancia hedged, "That bridge might have been burned already."

Eska shot her a look, visible even in the shadows of her hood, and said in a knowing tone, "You opened your mouth around the wrong person."

"Another thing I'm quite reliable about," the Breton admitted, only slightly diffident. Really, she had just been trying to mind her own business. That was why she had come all the way to Whiterun from Riverwood in the first place. There was a perfectly good inn there where she could have gotten just as drunk as she was now, but after retrieving that stupid claw for those shopkeepers she hadn't wanted to spend one minute more in that town than she absolutely had to. Not after fighting draugr, and giant spiders, and that damnable bandit-thief, not to mention that…_wall_. Whatever it had been, it had ensorcelled her mind, made her vision go dark as those strange letters seemed to rush at her, blazing and bright amidst the shadows.

She had been disoriented for several minutes—minutes where Eska had had to do battle with a draugr that screeched an ungodly racket that literally threw the khajiit off of her feet. All for a stupid golden claw, and some damn bloody tablet. It might have been worth nothing, but the strange writing etched into its surface was the same as what had been inscribed on that wall. Perhaps it held answers in regards to whatever had happened to her. So far, she wasn't feeling any ill effects, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If she started turning into a draugr, or came down with a raging case of the rattles then they would know something was wrong, and perhaps the tablet would hold answers.

After all that, could she really be blamed for not wanting to join several warriors doing battle with a giant? She had run practically the entire way from Riverwood, taking most of the previous night and day, and on only an hour or so of sleep. And she'd left Eska behind, knowing the khajiit would come looking for her and needing a few hours to get properly drunk out from under the presence her meddlesome concern.

Well, the warriors certainly hadn't really taken kindly to being ignored. They apparently took offense to watching an armed woman stride past their battle with a giant, without stopping to offer a helping hand. Oh, she had watched, of course, and it was good she had, because the beast had suddenly come rampaging toward the road, swinging his great club. She'd blinded him with a ball of mage-light, disabling him long enough for the warriors to bring him down.

All at once her vision had been filled with the towering presence of a ginger-haired Nord woman, thanking her sarcastically for her brave assistance. In truth, at the moment she couldn't recall exactly what had been said. Something about honor, and the Companions, and a mention that they were always looking for capable warriors. Not mages, Sancia remembered thinking. She could fight well enough with a small sword or dagger, but her true strength lay in magic. With a flare of annoyance, and a desire for the conversation to be over, she might have mentioned that she thought being a Companion sounded like a waste of time. Suffice to say, that hadn't gone over well. There hadn't been an altercation, but the warriors had stalked off in a huff, and Sancia had finally been able to make her way into the city to find a drink.

What would the mighty Companions think if she staggered into their great hall, drunk and unrepentant, with her apologetic khajiit caretaker in tow? No, it would be better if they found someplace for her to sleep off her drink, and then moved on in the morning. Or whenever she managed to recover from her hangover.

"I didn't drink away all my coin this time," she offered, voice slurring around the edges.

"Congratulations," Eska drawled sarcastically, "Come, sister. We shall set up a tent at the khajiit camp." That was their usual fallback when they wound up getting run out of a city. Nobody cared who camped in the patches of dirt reserved for khajiit caravans, so long as they didn't do anything noticeably illegal.

In her current state, Sancia was more a hindrance than a help in getting their tent set up, but she at least possessed enough of her faculties to get the campfire going. Soon enough they were settled down in their bedrolls, weapons within easy reach just in case. Sancia was half-asleep when she heard Eska murmur something at her. "What?" she asked, voice leaden and groggy.

"I said perhaps the Thieves Guild will take our sorry hides, since no one else will have us."

The Breton barked a laugh, and said, "Them, or maybe the Dark Brotherhood." She meant it as a joke, but the next morning saw her being shaken awake by a pushy khajiit who informed her that she'd hired a carriage to take them to Riften.

"Wha-? Why?" Sancia sputtered as she stuffed her things haphazardly into her pack.

"Because no one knows us there, and perhaps we'll be able to find work before you open your mouth and piss anybody off," Eska said, rather perfunctorily. She pushed the human down the road leading to Whiterun Stables where their carriage awaited them, and practically had to throw her into it. As soon as she was seated, she immediately stretched out, drawing her hood down over her face and promptly falling back to sleep. The khajiit rolled her eyes, and handed the driver his payment, which he counted out in front of her before finally cracking the reigns and getting their journey underway. Tsa'eska had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

x

**boop**

**If you review a candy fairy will leave Reese's Pieces under your pillow tonight. And if you don't like Reese's Pieces he'll leave you a big fat pile of nothing, because Reese's Pieces are fucking delicious. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I was kinda lazy about the transitions in this. Thanks to ArtemisUndergoingMitosis for reviewing, you're a true amiga. Also, I changed the story summary, I feel like this one is more appropriate.  
**

x

Most people looked at Sancia and saw a Breton. She knew she certainly looked the part, with her olive complexion, relatively short stature, grey eyes, short cropped ash brown hair, and penchant for magic. For her own sake, and for those who looked upon her, she usually chose not to disillusion them. Her father had been a Breton, and she supposed her mother technically had been as well. Though most regarded the Forsworn as native savages, the majority of Reachmen had more than a touch of High Rock in their blood.

Their journey to Riften left the woman with plenty of time to reflect. The wagon ride was dreadfully boring at best, even in those few moments where they met trouble on the road. A few bandits tested their luck against the Breton mage and the Khajiit archer, and came up short; their bodies were left to rot on the side of the road, along with numerous frostbite spiders and wolves. The carriage driver was unwilling to stop long enough to let Eska skin the beasts, though they were able to nip a few vials of frostbite venom for their troubles.

In the long moments between these encounters, when there was nothing around them but mountains or forest, and the never-ending road to Riften, Sancia had nothing to do but think. She tried to think of things like what they would do when they finally reached their destination, but her mind incessantly drew her backward, sneaking glimpses at a past that she would much rather have forgotten.

"We could have walked to Riften by now," she muttered when they stopped over in Ivarstead. The carriage driver gave her a cool look, but by then he had learned to ignore her grumbling. Most people did eventually, when they found themselves stuck in her presence for any length of time.

At least that night they got to sleep in beds, instead of curled up on the ground around a campfire at the side of that damnable road. The inn was hospitable enough, though the beds were a bit rickety. Sancia found she was too tired to really care.

In her dreams, she couldn't escape the past. When she closed her eyes she saw a tower. Comprised of stone, and surrounded by makeshift tents, the tower had once meant "home" to her. She was so little in her dream, and the tower seemed so enormous; if it hadn't been a place she'd known since she'd been born, she might have found it to be forbidding.

x

_The little girl ran about the camp, sharing shrieking laughter with the other children. Their elders looked on with tight smiles, and the children could hear them muttering about deserving better than some crumbling redoubt in the hills. But she didn't understand, and she was perfectly happy playing in the camp. Mother was hunting, and would be back soon with the others, hopefully with the choicest carvings from a nice plump elk carried in a bloody sack. Mudcrab legs and goat meat were fine, but it had been a while since they'd had a real feast. _

_Sometimes she could remember her father's face from back then. Oftentimes he looked almost sad; lost even. At times when she was younger she could fool herself into thinking those sad looks hadn't come along until after that night—the night that mother didn't return with the hunting party. Oh, how father grieved. It was like a piece of him broke, and never quite healed again, festering instead inside of him. The mournful looks on the hunters' faces, combined with her father's wailing, told the little girl that something was wrong, but it took a lot of explaining for her to realize that her mother wasn't coming home. _

For the next few days on the road, Sancia was unusually quiet. She simply sat in the back of the carriage and glared off at the river as the carriage trundled alongside it. When they stopped for lunch, she tromped off down to the shallows and came back with a wriggling salmon on the edge of her dagger. Eska began giving her these long, thoughtful looks, which started to grate on the Breton the longer the journey lasted.

"You're thinking about him," the Khajiit finally stated several days later, when she decided that her friend wasn't going to be forthcoming. It shouldn't have surprised her; Sancia was rarely inclined to unburden her troubles onto others.

"Thinking about whom?" the Forsworn snarled in response. _No, I'm not Forsworn, _she berated herself. That part of her was dead. It might as well have never existed at all.

_Father brought her to Markarth. When she was older she would realize the true folly of this decision, but at the time she simply felt alone and confused. She remembered living at the tower, at their camp, until one night when father came into their tent and scooped her up, rousing her from a troubled sleep. She hadn't understood what was happening, but he shushed her when she asked what was going on, and hurriedly carried her away. _

_A horse waited for them outside the camp, down the trail a ways, well out of sight of those who were keeping watch. Nobody tried to stop them, or ask where they were going, which even then she found odd. There were always sentries. _

_The horse's reins were handed over by a strangely dressed man. He wore red and gold armor, the likes of which she'd only seen as trophies brought back by hunting parties. She had never questioned where the armor had come from. The man said something to her father, and he had hissed something back, tone urgent, body tense. Finally the man stood out of their way, and father sat her on the back of the horse before jumping up behind her. Just as he turned the beast down the path, the screaming began. The little girl tried to look and see, but she felt her father's arm around her, and then a great jolt as he kicked the horse into a gallop. _

_x_

They reached the settlement of Shor's Stone with the assurance that Riften wasn't much further. It was agreed that they would rest there for the remainder of the day, even though there was plenty of sunlight left before night fell. Sancia felt restless enough to go poking around the forest, having finally decided that the Rift wasn't the worst place they could have ended up. It was warm, for one. Well, warmer than the rest of this gods-forsaken province.

She spent the day collecting ingredients for alchemy, stuffing her satchel until it was fit to burst. When she finally got back to the little mining village, she found the residents playing host to a Khajiit caravan. Eska, of course, had already ingratiated herself, and was sharing their campfire, trading stories with her kinsmen. Ahkari was the name of their leader, and she seemed pleased when Sancia joined them for dinner and agreed to look over her wares. While they bartered, Eska seemed too busy preening for one of the caravan's warriors to take much notice of anything else.

When they settled down to sleep, Sancia whispered teasingly about the Khajiit's overt interest in the male; Kharjo was his name. "He would make a fine mate," Eska said with a shrug. Unlike humans, most Khajiit didn't make courtship into too elaborate a dance. Eska had once told her of the rituals they had back in Elsweyr, where the men of the clan would battle to the death over a desired female. "Alas, most matings are arranged these days," she had sighed, "It's a bit dull, but I suppose we wouldn't have many men left if they spent all their time murdering one another for the right to marry." Outside of their home, it was a bit simpler. Without clan politics standing in their way, many Khajiit simply mated to any worthy partner who crossed their path. It seemed so much simpler, although Sancia most definitely was not looking to get married anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter.

x

_Again she dreamt that night. Markarth had been so cold, so uninviting. It was stone, like the tower, but unlike the tower, she could not leave. There was no camp to play in, just cold stone streets, stone buildings, and stone walls. There were other children there, children who teased and pushed her. They were bigger, but not as fast, and they were soft and plump, like well-kept cows. They cried so easily, went blubbering back to their mothers when the girl would bite them, or twist their arms. She was used to rougher play, and she quickly decided she had no interest in making friends with these whimpy Nord brats. _

_The people of Markarth didn't like outsiders any more than the girl liked them. Through visitors to their tiny stone home, she learned that her father had lived here before. He knew some people in the city, though he wasn't always happy to see them when they came calling. The longer they lived there, the more adept she got at sneaking toward his room, where she could listen to his whispered conversations. _

_He and mother had lived here once, before she was born. It was where they had met. But something had happened, something bad, and they had had to leave. She heard mutterings about the Forsworn, though she didn't realize at first that that was the Nord name for her people; the Reachmen. The contempt on the faces of the Nords when they spoke about the "Markarth Incident" and the "Forsworn Rebellion" bid her to hold her tongue. She wasn't stupid enough to go about bragging, not as she grew older and learned about Ulfric Stormcloak, and heard that he had made the streets of Markarth run red with Forsworn blood. _

_Father worked at the blacksmith forge. It was humiliating, and paid very little, from what she could gather. He was treated as an apprentice, despite his age, and he could do nothing about it. As she grew older and years passed, the girl found a job serving drinks at the Silver-Blood Inn. It was at least as degrading as father's job, perhaps more so. Men would grope her, call her "sweetheart" and try to pull her into their laps, and when she broke their fingers it only resulted in a scolding from the innkeeper. She was expected to tolerate these abuses with a smile, but she found other ways to get revenge. _

_Coins were pilfered, drinks dosed with just the right amount of canis root and nightshade to cause bowl discomforts. She only took these liberties every so often, knowing these things couldn't lead back to her, lest she suffer the consequences. It wouldn't do for her to wind up tossed into Cidhna Mine, where Divines only knew what would happen to a young girl. _

_It wasn't until she was sixteen that she learned the full truth of why they were in Markarth, why father wouldn't let her leave, why he never spoke about their home, or her mother. When she came home one night after an endless shift at the inn and found him lying on the floor of their hovel with his throat slit, she wasn't quite sure how to feel. Over the years she had grown to resent him, but had never seen any other option but to stay by his side. He was her father, after all, and if she left he would have nobody. _

_For a moment she almost felt relieved, even as his blood pooled around her feet. Then she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and narrowly escaped joining him in death._

_What happened next would follow her for years. The boy who'd killed her father was one of her kinsmen, a child who had escaped the slaughter of their clan all those years ago. It was something she tried not to think about, though she'd always suspected what had befallen their people. She barely managed to convince him she hadn't known anything about it, about how her father had sold them out to the Imperial Legion, all for a chance to move back to Markarth with a clean slate. He was just a Breton, after all, not a true Reachman, though he was known to live among the Forsworn and therefore could not simply return to the city. Living in the wilds had never suited him, and with her mother gone, he had seen no point in continuing to live amongst the savages. _

_The only reason he'd gone with them in the first place was because of mother. He hadn't wanted to leave when Ulfric Stormcloak sacked the city, but he would have been killed if he had stayed. Besides, leaving enabled him to marry her mother, though he'd always felt out of place. He had never wanted to raise a family out there in the wilderness, so after mother died he'd found a way to get back into Markarth and wash his hands of the Forsworn entirely. _

"_If he hadn't had them all killed they would have come for him, if only to get you back," the boy told her. Even as a child, the hagravens had taken note of her magical talents. She would have grown up to be a shaman, a powerful leader amongst the Reachmen, but instead she stagnated in this place where magic was sneered at. _

_She saw the look of greed in the Forsworn boy's eyes. He lowered his dagger, tucked it away into the breeches he wore as part of his disguise. He told her he'd been one of the few survivors of the slaughter, and that he'd spent his entire life training to fight the outsiders, and to hunt down her father. "Come away with me," he said, "You could come back. They would welcome you with open arms…sister." He wanted her for himself. His expression was the same as those pigs at the inn, the ones that grabbed her, and whistled, and whispered what they would do to her if they got the chance. She'd smiled, tentative, and crossed the room. He'd looked terribly surprised when she stuck her own dagger between his ribs. _

_x_

All teasing aside, Sancia was glad when the caravan headed back toward Ivarstead the next morning. Without Eska, she was certain she'd wind up lying dead in a gutter somewhere, though if she decided to run off and get married, the Breton wouldn't try to stop her.

The carriage reached Riften a few days later, though she wound up having to threaten the guard at the gate before he would let them in. The fool had the nerve to try to cheat them out of the few coins they had left, and then he halfheartedly attempted to bar Eska from entering the city.

It wasn't the best first impression, but Sancia had promised her sister to behave. Once they were inside the walls, the city would be theirs for the taking.


End file.
